Your Own Way
by blueowls
Summary: Brittany x Santana. //"What kind of girlfriend would I be if I didn’t come to see you race at regionals, only to watch you fall flat on your face two feet before the finish line?"//
1. Chapter 1

**Author Note:** From a Glee Fic!Battle prompt on LJ, where one of the girls is on a sports team like soccer or cross country and the other girl publicly cheers for her at a game.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**Your Own Way  
**

Lying flat on her back and breathing hard is not a new experience for Santana. However, finding a blonde cheerleader staring down at her and nudging her hip with the toe of her shoe is.

"Are you okay?" the blonde asks quietly, pom-poms in hand. Santana wheezes and closes her eyes, hoping that some merciful god will take pity on her and put her out of her misery soon.

She never should have let Coach Evans convince her to do the four-hundred meter sprint because she's strictly a long-distance runner, not some beefy sprinter, and now she's lying on the grass on the inside of the track while the rest of the track meet continues without her, trying to catch her breath as the clatter of someone not-quite-clearing a hurdle elicits giggles from the cheerleaders in the bleachers.

At least she got first place. She can die happy knowing that.

"Do you need CCR?"

"CPR," Santana corrects breathlessly. "Go away."

The cheerleader drops her pom-poms and flops down onto the grass next to her, lying on her stomach with her chin propped up thoughtfully. Coach Evans is busy clocking in the hurdlers' times, and Coach Sylvester couldn't care less about one freshman cheerleader at a non-football game (varsity cheerleaders were assigned to popular, crowd-pleasing games like football, while freshmen were lucky to get a ten-minute cameo at track races or tennis matches), so Santana knows that no one is going to come to her rescue.

"I'm Brittany," the blonde offers, scooting close enough to brush against Santana's arm. Santana doesn't even have enough energy to recoil or sock her, because _no one_ touches Santana Lopez. But she's at someone's mercy, and that calls for proper manners.

"Santana," she manages to gasp, as means of an introduction. "Why are you talking to me?"

"You run fast. I saw you," Brittany says cheerfully. She bats at Santana's ponytail, the dark locks splayed out in the grass. "And you have nice hair."

The brunette frowns and opens her eyes, swatting the girl's hand away. All she can see is wide, blue sky and a few wispy clouds turning a cotton-candy pink as the afternoon slips away. "Let me die in peace."

"You're not going to die," Brittany smiles. She retrieves one of the pom-poms and starts to pick at the red strands as Santana struggles to sit up. The world spins for a second before the dizziness passes, and she crosses her legs Indian-style as she moves to face the cheerleader.

"How do you know?"

"I won't let you."

Santana snorts disbelievingly. If willpower alone was enough to achieve half of her goals in life, she'd already be far, far away from Lima and betting her future on something more stable then an athletic scholarship. "That makes no sense whatsoever."

"Some things don't," Brittany agrees, meeting her eyes. Santana scowls, a flush working itself over her body, and turns her attention back to the track, where the final race, a thirty-two hundred meter test of endurance, is starting. _That_ is where Santana belongs, slogging neck-to-neck through eight painful laps to put on a burst of speed at the finale and decisively crush her competitor's egos.

"Want to go eat at IHOP after?" Brittany asks spontaneously, rolling over onto her back. She slips her hands behind her head and stares up at the sky, and Santana makes the same grouchy face she always does when she's trying not to smile.

"Sure."

---

Despite Coach Sylvester forbidding cheering at any game other then football because she's still bitter about glee's success (they're on their way to nationals this year) and knows all about Santana and Brittany, the blonde always shows up, sometimes by herself and sometimes with a friend or two in tow, to cheer for the track team and, mainly, for Santana. But today she's alone, one small spot of black, white, and red in a crowd of people at Ohio state championships.

They're seniors and submitting college applications and finishing up their penultimate semester at WMHS, and Santana is cocky and full of herself because as she leaves the others in the dust and crosses that thirty-two hundred meter finish line first, she _knows_ she's good.

Santana accepts a medal around her neck and congratulations that that don't register and stumbles off the track, struggling to catch her breath as Coach Evans prattles on about nationals and some recruiter offering a tentative scholarship to a state university. Thanks to glee and, goddam it, even thanks to Kurt, Santana doesn't pull away when Brittany bounds down the bleacher steps and pulls her close and they kiss, right in front of a crowd of rowdy Midwesterners and judges and maybe, if Santana can win nationals, potential sponsors.

And just like when they met the first time, Brittany is beautiful and Santana is breathless.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author Note:** If I've gotten anything track/big-important-race related wrong, sorry. I haven't raced in forever and never went to anything fancier then invitationals.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**Your Own Way (2)**

Santana glances down at her watch and, pleased with the time she sees, slows down abruptly, the thick soles of her running shoes squeaking on the sidewalk as she stops and takes a few shaky steps to the left to lean heavily against a nearby wall. Panting, she brushes flyaway strands of hair off of her forehead as her half-bared back scrapes up against the stucco and reaches up to tug her hair out of the elastic that holds it in a sorry-looking ponytail, gathering her hair and pulling it back tightly before securing it again. She turns her head, eyes scanning the street she just ran, and waits, her breathing quickly returning to normal.

A good five minutes pass before Brittany turns the corner down at the end of the street, and it's even longer until she jogs up to Santana, face flushed pink. As a Cheerio, physical exertion is nothing new, but Brittany's unable to keep up with Santana's pace—few people are—and she staggers to a halt in front of Santana, shaking her head in amazement at her before collapsing dramatically to the ground and rolling over onto her back, arms outstretched.

Santana slides down the wall gingerly, kicking her feet out so that she's sitting on the ground with her toes poking Brittany's calves. The other girl only groans softly, swatting blindly at her with one hand as she throws an arm over her eyes and tries to slow her breathing down, the bottom of her red McKinley High shirt riding up.

"I don't understand how you do this every day," she manages to say tiredly. Santana shrugs, although Brittany doesn't see, and she winces as she feels her shoulder scrape against the rough wall, clad only in black running shorts and a sports bra.

"It's like you and cheerleading, I guess," Santana answers, peering over her shoulder to assess the damage. She frowns and rubs at the scrapes, but at least it's not bleeding. "It's natural."

"There's nothing natural about a six minute mile," Brittany counters, heaving herself up into a sitting position and smiling at her. Santana shakes her head and reaches out to run her hand up and down the back of Brittany's shirt, brushing off whatever's collected there from the sidewalk.

"You're going to come see me, right?" Santana asks quietly, suddenly pensive. Brittany roles her eyes and grabs Santana's hand off her shoulder, clasping it between her own and squeezing reassuringly.

"_Duh_," she drawls with her usual eloquence and wide smile. "What kind of girlfriend would I be if I didn't come to see you race at regionals, only to watch you fall flat on your face two feet before the finish line?"

"You suck," Santana whines as Brittany stands and tugs her up. She goes limp out of spite, but Brittany only wraps an arm around her waist and heaves her up with her Cheerio strength, forcing Santana to stand.

"I'm totally kidding. You're going to win," Brittany whispers in her ear before placing a swift peck to her cheek and yelling "Race you!" before taking off down the street in a blurred flash of red fabric and blonde hair. Santana smirks triumphantly before following, letting Brittany win the race back all the way to her house.

She should run behind people more often, because the view, as Puck would put it, is definitely crunchy toast.

---

Santana Lopez is a winner. Her father's repeated that phrase to her ad nauseam, Scheuster and, by extension, Ms. Pillsbury believe it, although God knows why since track has nothing to do with singing, which she's only okay at, and Brittany's even said that Sylvester's grudgingly admitted that if Brittany's going to ruin any chance of having a normal life, at least she picked a winner to drag her down.

Santana chooses to ignore them all, especially Sylvester, because as Quinn, taking her Juno role to heart, constantly reminds her whenever she does something stupid involving Brittany, the right person is still going to think the sun shines out your ass. Brittany will always think she's a winner no matter how badly she fucks up, and plus, it doesn't hurt that Santana _knows_ she's awesome.

But now, it's being tested.

Her mental mantra of _oh shit oh shit oh shit_ is being drowned out by the crowd to her right, and she licks her lips—less in nervousness and more to remember the good-luck make-out session Brittany had insisted on minutes before shoving her out onto the track—as the three other girls engage in last-minute stretches. She bends down, motions smooth and fingertips brushing against her toes as she smirks cockily at the brunette next to her, because these girls may be good, but she's Santana fucking Lopez and she's here to kick some ass.

The mantra becomes _I'm fucking screwed_ as the chubby guy with the gun shoos them all toward the starting line. The cursing is only a bit of self-deprecation to make her feel a little better about all the pressure, because she sure as fucking hell doesn't believe she's screwed. She's going to _win_, dammit, and it's going to be fucking amazing.

They jostle for position, coveting the first lane, and even though Santana's not afraid to use elbow, she ends up on the outside lane, scowling at the girl to her left as she carefully toes the fat white line. It would be mortifying to come all this way only to get disqualified for stepping over the line. And getting the outside lane's not a death-sentence anyway, because the starting lines are staggered, each lane starting a good couple of feet ahead of the previous one. It all evens out in the end.

Santana bounces on the balls of her feet, feeling the spikes of her lightweight Pumas dig into the foamy red plastic of the all-weather track and plucking at her too-tight shorts as she turns her head and quickly scans the crowd for Brittany. She's sitting in the first row of the stands in her oversized red Cheerio sweatshirt, perched on the edge of her seat next to Santana's parents and holding pompoms. It's obvious by the way that Brittany waves at her exaggeratedly that she's been trying to get her attention for a while, and Santana blushes, raising a hand awkwardly in a half-wave and grimacing in an attempt to smile before turning her attention back to the race.

The guy's repeating the rules, all of which Santana already knows by heart and ignores until he cocks the gun and tells them to be on their mark. Santana leans forward eagerly, not crouching, but close, left foot forward and weight on her right, hands down loose by her side as she breathes in and out quickly.

He only shoots a cap, but the gun's loud and they're all off, jockeying for the lead. Santana falls into third place almost instantly, but she's calm and collected, taking the curve (relatively) easy and saving her sprint for the straightaway. Which, she smirks to herself with no small amount of satisfaction, turns out to be a good idea, because she whips by the other two girls and takes the lead once the track straightens out. The first lap goes by easily enough, and she's halfway through the second before she starts to feel the burn.

By now, Santana's breathing a little harder, forcing herself to lower her fists and keep her arms loose. There's a girl right behind her, judging by the heavy breathing, and her thighs are starting to burn. If she weren't such a masochist, she would say it kind of hurt. She picks up the speed a little as she finishes her fourth lap, the other girl still right behind her, but keeps from all-out sprinting. _That's_ for the final lap.

By the fifth lap, the girl is still behind her, and that's definitely not the way she imagined this was going to go down. Brow furrowing and breathing heavily, Santana speeds up, still not sprinting, and manages to break away from the leech, just barely. The end of her ponytail whacks the back of her neck methodically as she lengthens her stride, spikes digging into the track as she rounds the curve and scans the crowd for Brittany.

Santana only catches a brief glimpse of her because the pace is fast and she really should be focusing on the track, but she sees Brittany's standing, obscuring the view of the people behind her and leaning heavily on the railing, looking like she might topple over onto the track if the disgruntled people behind her had the mind to reach out and push her. Fuck pompoms, posters, cheers, or even, yes, Cheerio skirts, because nothing makes Santana run faster—among other things—then when she hears Brittany call out her name, a quick 'I love you' added before she's too far away to hear.

It smacks Santana right then and there at the beginning of her seventh lap that she needs this to get out of Lima. Brittany's made it to some good schools, and now it's up to Santana to make sure she can follow. Hearing the now-ragged breathing and realizing that the other girl's right behind her again, Santana keeps her head held high and draws on her last reserves of strength, jerking forward with a grunt and breaking into a sprint.

That burning she felt in her thighs earlier? Yeah, it was nothing compared to now, because her legs are on fire and so are her lungs, but she grits her teeth and tries to loosen up without tripping, because her feet are going faster then she is. At least if she trips, the embarrassment will kill her if the faceplant doesn't.

She's focusing on keeping her breathing even and steady when she whips by the last two girls, and panics for a second before realizing that _holy shit_, she's actually lapped them. The guy who was holing the gun before has an obnoxious old-fashioned bell in his hand, and he rings it as she steps over the line into her final lap. The noise of the crowd may or may not go up several decibels, because Santana's concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, Brittany's joke on her mind as she rounds the first curve and hits the straightaway.

The other girl is no longer a problem. A heady joy hits Santana and she allows herself one little smile, ignoring her trembling legs. There's no one behind her and she's rounding the last curve now. There's a familiar piercing shriek to her right, and she's pretty sure that she sees her mother jumping up and down out of the corner of her before she sets her sight on that little white line and pushes hard.

She makes it past the finish line and finds it surprisingly easy to stop, wobbling unsteadily as she turns abruptly and places her hands on her hips, chest heaving. She smirks at her coach, accepting a congratulatory slap on the back as she ignores the other girls eventually crossing the finishing line—the one who had been on her heels for most of the race crying unashamedly—because she's a badass like that and maybe, just maybe, because she knows that that could have been her coming in second.

_Might_ have been her, if she weren't so awesome.

For all her trouble, she gets a shiny little medal that her dad's going to hoard and gloat about and polish nightly. She really could care less about it, because with or without it, she's going to nationals now.

And because Brittany blindsides her, wraps her arms around her, and kisses her, stealing what little breath she has left.

---

After that, it's all kind of a blur. Well, except for when Brittany pushes her up against the bathroom wall and slides a hand up under her shirt, mouth hot on her neck. Santana is all for victory sex—they both know from experience—but she's totally exhausted and takes a rain check on it, head drooping onto Brittany's shoulder in the backseat of the car as they head home.

Santana's filled with this stupid warm-and-fuzzy feeling which is only exacerbated by the fact that she's wearing Brittany's sweater and she's about to fall asleep. Eyes closed, she takes Brittany's hand, and Brittany twines their fingers together, placing a covert kiss to the top of her head, because even though Mr. and Mrs. Lopez know about them, it's different when they're less then three feet away.

"You're going to come see me at nationals, right?" Santana murmurs, smirking into the fabric. Brittany lets out a quiet laugh.

"Duh, Santana. I wouldn't miss it for the world."


End file.
